The ?
There's a word I'd struggled with as a child.
I was writing in the green dappled morning, legs dangling, hair in pigtails, chewing my favorite freshly wood sharpened lead pencil, and was suddenly stuck.
My thinking could not wrap around its sound, vital as it is.
"That's a sight word," and I know! I could hear it and somehow, I couldn't visualize. Mouthing those letters for how the word should be spelled. It was a loud question mark.
Some languages don't have this article. Why?
Grandpa
The truth is often said in jest. That little slice of wisdom come from HG Welles at the end of War of The Worlds!
I recall the night I was telling my visiting grandparents a story from my Boy Scout trip. It was a campfire tell and how much of it is fact I don't know. Anyways, each time I tried to tell it my grandpa would interupt wanting more details: what was his skin color, did he have a gold tooth, things like that.
He was of course doing this to mess with me. But now that I weave a tale now and then I understand how those little details my grandpa demanded to know make the difference.
A Lady on the Bus
So this is not a work of fiction. It's the true life story of a person I met and the experience I had with her. I'm sharing this so that you can keep this lady in your prayers, as she is struggling. She is a beautiful, amazing soul. But she needs the protection of whatever divinity is out there.
So I was on the bus today, going home from school. As I got on the bus, I noticed a lady who looked like she was sleeping on her seat. No big deal, people get cozy on the bus sometimes, they even close their eyes sometimes, it doesn't necessarily mean they're actually asleep. So I just stand near the back which is where people go if all the seats are occupied.
But eventually the bus stops at a bus stop and I notice a police car stopped in front of us. The driver gets out of the bus and talks to the police. Then a police officer comes and he starts talking to the lady who was resting. Now, I have been the victim of police brutality before. I know wha it's like. This woman is visibly BIPOC, and she looks to be either Latina or Indigenous. She looks poor. She could be having a mental health crisis. I know what police do to people like her. I'm not about to let her get murdered or beaten up or something. So I start filming. I don't say anything, I just take out my phone and start filming.
I know we're on a bus and beside a busy road, so if there is any maltreatment, people will see. But I also know that there are many cases where people got killed on or by a busy road. I've watched a video of a mentally ill man getting gunned down by the police even though he was just standing with his hands up, and this happened right by a busy road full of cars. If anything happens, having video evidence of it will back up and lend credibility to eyewitness accounts. If anything happens, having video evidence of it will make more people believe the truth.
So I film, from a few meters away. The police officer asks her if she has a ticket for the bus. She says no. He demands that she get out of the bus. She refuses at first. But he threatens to take her out by force. Now I will mention that she looks extremely tired and groggy and she doesn't seem to be thinking rationally. The police officer threatens to arrest her, so she gets off the bus. The cop follows her, and I follow the cop, still filming. Outside, the cop threatens to arrest the girl, and asks for her information. He notices me filming and asks if he can help me. I say no, and that I'm just making sure.
The lady seems completely delirious. She can only answer yes or no, and her voice sounds incredibly distressed and emotional. The police officer eventually gets into his car and drives away. And I stop filming but I stay with the lady. She's sitting on a bench and I sit beside her. I ask her if she has any friends or family she can go to. She can't answer my questions in full sentences and just says no in a very panicked voice. I ask her if she wants to go to a homeless shelter, and she says no. I have to talk to her and repeat the same question four or five times to get an answer. The police officer had previously had to ask the same question many times to get an answer as well.
I know I can't leave her like this. She's completely out of it and if she's outside by herself by the time night rolls around, then she might get kidnapped. I've seen too many missing posters around my city, and read too many articles about the MMIGW2S crisis. Not to mention, she doesn't have any warm clothes, she only has a cotton t shirt and slacks, and the nights are very cold where I live. She could straight up die of pneumonia or something if she doesn't find shelter before the night. So I decide to call a homeless shelter anyways and explain my situation. They tell me to call a number and there will be a crisis response team who will come.
So the crisis response team is not part of the police. They don't have weapons. They're social workers who use deescalation tactics and stuff.
So I call the number for the crisis response team. And at this point she's lying down on the bench at the bus stand and I'm sitting on the ground next to her. Which is okay, since she's really tired and I'm not. I get put on hold on the phone, and I stay put on hold for like half an hour. So I'm just sitting here, keeping an eye on the lady, waiting to be connected on the phone to someone I can talk to. And it's pretty tense, but thank the gods the weather is good.
Eventually the call does get through. The lady on the other side of the phone line asks what happened and where I am. So I explain my situation to her. She says she'll send a crisis response team, but they'll take at least half an hour to get there. So that's okay I guess. So I stay with the distressed lady. I don't try to talk to her. I just let her rest. The gods know that she needs her rest. I just want to make sure she doesn't end up kidnapped or the victim of police brutality or a suicide victim or something. I want her to rest in a soft, clean bed inside instead of having to sleep on a hard metal bench outside. But for the time being I just let her rest.
So eventually the crisis support team gets here. They have a car, and they are two ladies. They're really nice. They ask her questions, and she is finally able to talk in full sentences, instead of only saying yes or no. This is a good thing. But the answers she gives still don't make sense. When the crisis response ladies ask her if she's staying with anyone, she says that she's staying with family. But when they ask if she knows the phone numbers of any family members, she replies that she doesn't have any family. When they ask her how she got to where she is now, she replies that she walked. Which I know is not true since I was on the bus with her and I got off said bus with her.
She keeps insisting that she needs to go back to where she was staying, she wants them to take her to where she was staying. She keeps begging to have help so she can go back. But when the ladies ask her what address she needs to go back to, she says she doesn't know. When they ask her if she has anyone's phone number that she could call, she responds that she doesn't know any phone numbers. She sounds incredibly distressed this whole time.
Eventually she says that she was trying to get to a bank, and so they ask her if she might be able to lead them to where she's staying if they start from the bank she was trying to get to. She says that maybe she can. She gets in the car with them and the three ladies drive off. So after this, I stay at the bus stop and I take the next bus home.
So I have no idea what happened to her beyond that. But I do trust the lady at the homeless shelter call line who told me to call the crisis response team. And I do trust the crisis response team because they're not cops, and they're very gentle and kind.
I sincerely hope that she gets the help that she needs and that she enters into a better mental state. I hope she gets back to her home and that she can be safe and comfortable. I hope she receives healthcare and mental healthcare because she clearly needs both. This is coming from someone who clearly needed both at one point too. I was extremely undernourished and suicidal once and going to the hospital kept me from dying. I hope that she gets the help that she needs. I hope that so much with all of my heart.
I am keeping her in my prayers, and I would really appreciate it if you guys could pray for her as well. I hope she can have the blessings of all the gods. I believe in the power of prayer and I believe in the power of love. I believe in the power of kindness, compassion, humility, empathy, and dignity. If you could all pray for her, it would mean an immense amount to me and I would be very grateful.
Helianthus annuus, heliotropic slow dance
Stream of photons bathe top heavy fountainhead of sunflower. Analogous to Atlas shrugging, hoisting, grappling... with planet Earth, the heavyweight discobolus buoyantly held aloft upon robust stem tracks the heavenly orientation of said hypothetical nearest star. This immense distance, nonetheless still affects majestic seeded head tracing weighty radial circular motion in miniature, along the ground. Imperturbable rotation evokes invisibly linkedin plumbline stretching approximately 92.96 million miles. This number represents average distance calculated between solar body and oblate spheroid. Greatest (more accurately farthest) interspace separates sun and namesake (scientifically identified inflorescence, particularly called capitulum) during late summer/ early autumn. Said aphelion approximately coincides with full blooming bouquet, which rioting, snapchatting, twittering birds, (who reddit in Daily Sun) immediately golong orderly pecking, kickstarting, buzzfeeding... capital one fancy feast. Nothing but mush shelled husk remains. These gouged out hollowed insides represent most successful plant regarding said species. Oft times newly planted seeds, and/or transplanted shooted seedlings (I bore witness), and watched in horror as tendered, nurtured, kindled... vulnerable inchoate fragile tendrils indiscriminately, gamely easily plucked from ground zero. Willy nilly free for all allows, enables, and provides ample opportunity to observe fair and equitable distribution gifted courtesy cornucopia fulfilling the maws of hungry diverse planetary mouths to feed. Invariably predators harbor taste for unsuspecting oblivious indulgent gourmandizing aves, and quick make short shrift despatching captive bird done deal. Such happens tubby caw of the wild, cuz copacetic, holistic, organic,... paradigm embraced by yours truly steeped within ethos, whereby the mighty heft wielded by Homo sapiens must not signal green light for deadly pesticides to exterminate delicate of world wide web. Despite being one crazy and fungi, I feel him mold dinned to relish resultant morning glory awash with beaming, strapping, waxing... yellow petaled ray flowers offering me an Uber spiritual lyft sining upon countenance of this returning native son, who recently returned from the annual Sunflower festival. Though dwarfed by towering giants, I exalted their storied triumph.
Surfeit sans sic-squalid spoiled sundered smorgasbord squandered serenity
Let me preface this synopsis of self with a poetic epistle (hopefully such reasonably nonrhyming license acceptable videre licet, this non-friction category) before delving into the heart of this bipedal hominid, the apotheosis sans earth, wind and fire depleting air supply and whip lashing the apathy annihilating will to live, thus forever suspending me as still thirteen and thirsting to taste and touch a youth untouched by fiery passion – so:
Despite three score
plus five birthdays elapsed
since exiting the birth canal
uber cataclysmic neurological
eruption would parlay
with forces of destruction
pell mell to rent asunder
psyche, an internal maelstrom
wrenched self worthiness -
pitting mine mien as blunder
bulldozing with razorblades
former childhood's end
wondrous glee raising suicide
quiet riotous ambition, a painfully slow
(self starvation) mine inexorable ride,
which chronological frieze kept hog-tied
and hide bound this one grown male
dredging haunting spectre – where
to be gratefully dead – within Elysian dale
youngest of me two female progeny
segued emotionally troublesome
twenty plus five year old
today April twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four,
cuz these lovely bones
triggered flashback to wretched tears
sans insidious roiling
jagged stone shredding/
thwarting desire to lyft motive to be alive
shockwaves extant to this day -
no matter long since
recovered from nose-dive
dog gone emotional, psychological
and social repercussions
hound me present mental state
indelible permanent scars
(per anxiety, herky jerky,
hokey pokey, panicky,
quirky tic) seem never to abate
try as I might to shake free
from the riptide affects
that drowned this boy to grow
he experiences an especially
perilous remembrance
of things past regarding
abysmal infernal woe
when thee second punim
o thine two lovely offspring
passed that milestone age
with nary a hint how her papa felt
life locked up within
his abysmal agonizing stage
impossible to forgive permanent harm
inflicted not only on self but searing pain
my late mother and
then living octogenarian father
whose angst this dada insight re: did gain
from bringing forth progeny,
which years eclipsed
at break neck speed,
whereby each special daughter
evincing greater sturdiness
akin to hardy weed
bound to surpass their dear ole dad
permanently branded with ghost
of Christmases past for never knowing
thee potential that burned black toast
and hunger pains even to this day frequently
blithely ignored as if still callous
tempted, lured and baited by hand of death
this grown man wished inxs to kiss.
Social anxiety (incorporating the alphabet soup of physiological symptoms i.e. clammy palms, heart palpitation, nausea, vertigo, et cetera) erupted to rent my psyche asunder and forcefully endearing themselves to my being (like dasher, dancer, Prancer, vixen, comet, cupid, dinner and Blitzen) with most every visit to college cafeterias, (an unpleasant effect explaining termination from the umpteen universities i matriculated), especially when hungry hordes (like madding crowds swelling the sea of Muslims practically stampeding their way en route the Hajj) clamored to be fed sustenance or spiritual succor respectively.
Never did this liberal minded scrivener get trampled underfoot, but he experienced physical manifestations entailing great discomfort probably on par with any devout pilgrimage to the holy shrine of Mecca.
Within the labyrinth of this mortal being i.e. christened matthew scott harris, hid unseen live, googly-eyed, earth-linked, mailer daemons that resounded with a quiet riot chorus of their unheard yahoo kindling the trip wire of damned perspiration, laceration (stinging tips of metallic whips and chains) induced hallucination prodding sphincter muscle to go into overdrive vis a vis via defecation, (irritable bowel ran rampant) creating one wreck of a human abomination kept in check from any unsuspecting observer.
This general figurative broad-brush stroke pertaining to the collective soul wrenching episodes does an injustice to panic attacks.
Best for me to winnow thru the quagmire of countless instances to evoke emotional explosion in an effort to engender comprehension, fixation, interrogation (pardon the hyperbolic exaggeration fueling this assay wantonly craving super) layman preservation, than zeroing in on a singular instance.
Little effort required for me to dial back mental chronology and pluck one generic panic attach festooned with the usual attendant coterie of kindling internal microscopic killing machinations swaggering like hotmail fresh off the field of a winning team.
Meal times at college (particularly with the madding crowd of voraciously famished coed undergraduates), the most frequent settings outbursts generated feverishly essentially annihilating any ambition to enjoy a normal peaceful repast (to satiate hunger), the most common environment envision a generic college cafeteria.
About twenty years ago (two decades spanning mine some total of fifty six birthdays plodding through the pernicious plots per me world wide web) represents the most recent non-voluntary foray into the field of dreaded descent into the domain of all out internal combustion, whereby attrition into no mans land of wretched undulating spasms quaking ole matthew knocked immunization generally enjoyed clinging assiduously to hibernation, meditation, self actualization as self sedation.
Eyelids now temporarily closed to re-envision the nada so salient salad days whence the feeding time instantaneously transformed into frantic frenzy at Kutztown university. While most all other student feasted on the ordinary industrial chow, i felt the grippe ketchup and override excruciating hunger. Adrenaline coursed thru this measly dry mouthed body (starving to savor the institutional haute cuisine.
No sooner did this then rather bony gluteus maximus became situated at the table (often whereby a quick exit could be made in the predictable panic stricken outcome that pierced and hammered me with gut wrenching agony), the medley of organic constriction of throat re: named near asphyxiation, furious pounding of ma poor heart churning out hormonal secretion sans flight or fight, strong sensation sans regurgitation (despite the likelihood my bowels recently purged per diarrhea courtesy of irritable gastrointestinal stress), disallowed even one morsel to appease thine palette.
Much as waste not want not the coda, ethos, general integrity keeping afloat my dogma, that credo went out the window (with or without the baby and bathwater – plugged pulled so no infant drowned, nor any other animal harmed in the making of this mindful video), the tray of uneaten food left for an employee to discard.
Complete discombobulating disorientation (in tandem with the tried and true trademark tell tale signs of tumultuous ferocious fracas re: Tony the tiger witnessed personal pandemonium, which violent trigger, nonetheless did offer a scant few minutes to gather peanut butter and jelly sandwiched haphazardly slap dashed together, whereby to escape this jam.
Cumulative episodes whence tumultuous shell shocked warring faction repeatedly played itself and affecting escape from this perilous perdition.
The shoals of home (which appeared sweeter than ever) specifically sighted when sitting with pangs of stomach churning aches to eat instead delivered a sentence whereby this anguished author felt himself severely lashed and slavishly held within thine fragile self witnessed withdrawal from campus life (for the umpteenth time) and hence avoidance became the coping mechanism.
Fast forward to the present. Now a cornucopia of pharmaceutical medications keep in check (akin to a mate) and put a lid on susceptibility toward chaotic sensation run amok.
This collective soul (whose esprit de corps rose from thine Heiress house of the rising sun) in fits and starts finally seems closer to psychological nirvana.
Now, now longer does a led zeppelin manacle this Renaissance man from the culture club. He scales the Ashbury heights of ecstasy via pharmacological panacea. He feels indomitable emotional strength to haul in the oats of a misspent youth.
The Dark
I've seen everything there is to see in my city, or so I thought. The one thing I haven't seen is what it looks like when it all goes dark. The power had gone out, and soon the bombs begin to drop. I'm pretty sure this is the start of a war. This is how it begins, every time. A light in the dark, and the world goes silent but for the explosions, the sound of buildings so well engineered crumbling to the ground.
They're calling it the bombing of Wall Street. How creative.
You ask what the colors are in this beautiful mess, and here is my answer. Besides that sickening black, the colors are the colors of fall. Shades of orange, yellow and red. Nothing but these, and not even the sky is blue anymore, not even the sea. There is too much smoke in the air. I suppose I should add gray to the list. But not blue, and not green. Everything in New York City is dead. I can't go outside yet, the smoke is too heavy. I can't go outside yet, my heart is not ready.
False Memory
The wafel vendor doesn’t recognize me when I pay, but why should he? The park glows with the memory of you for me and no one else. I trace our route, under red leaves that are about to fall. I find the railing and look over the water. Last time, the leaves were green, and there were a handful of paddleboats scudding over the rippling lake. There were dozens of people leaning over this same railing talking, laughing, taking pictures. Today is a still, chilly day. The swans seem to sit stationary on its surface. I can almost believe that I imagined that day, that I never met you.
The Red Carpet
Central Park smells better in the fall. That doesn't say too much, but if you've ever had the displeasure of taking a walk through in the heat of summer, you'd know what I mean. It smells like dirt, rot, and earth. I feel uncomfortable watching her undress bit by bit. I have trouble not being unnerved by the leaves I step on as I trample her youth and virility bit by bit. Soon she'll die.
A glance around the park shows the birds, the people, the animals, and insects that enjoy what she offers. The shade, the fields, the flowers, the walkways, and the water-features. Sometimes I wonder if Shel Silverstein walked the same path I do. Did he try to pick around the yellow and orange leaves plastered to the asphalt?
Too often, I hear people speak about phases of life like the changing of the seasons. If this is it, I don't want it. She buds every spring like a little baby. She opens her eyes and learns and grows. She sprouts into a full woman. Fertile with life of every species, she offers everything to them. We don't even thank her.
We marvel at the colors in the fall. They are the last markers of her beauty. Some travel a hundred miles to catch the foliage. But she's dying. We all sigh and simply wait for the birth of a new year, a new season. Will next year bless us more? We don't even thank her. Have we ever thanked her? Rather, we toss silver cans in her bushes and cigarette butts on her trails.
When the leaves drop and turn brown, we wait and wait and wait for spring. What about the old crone that waits, gnarled and bare? Some admire her pretty white hair on the tree branches and bushes, but we simply wait for her to die, so we may enjoy her daughter's benefits.
She gives, and gives, and gives. We take, and take, and take. When there is nothing left, we sit back and wait until she's dead. Then, we may enjoy ourselves once more. For what is fall but the reminder that she's dying and with patience, we may help ourselves to her fruits.
Central Park is abuzz with activity. People take photos of the leaves. The birds perch in the branches. The path is covered and I have no choice but to walk the red carpet that fall has laid out.